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Yes, that cliché is unfortunately what went through my head as the JetBlue flight I was on from Boston to Fort Lauderdale bounced through the sky Monday night during takeoff.

The plane jostled from side to side, and my quick, hurried glances out the window gave me a front row seat to watch the left wing of the plane bend and flex in the wind and rain of the storm through which the Airbus A320 was ascending from Logan International Airport.

My husband and I sat quietly in our seats, each with headphones on. I set the TV in the seatback in front of me to HGTV, where wealthier people than I am were quibbling over whether to “Love It or List It.” I turned the volume up as loud as possible.

(Thomas Cordy / The Palm Beach Post)

It couldn’t drown out the beating of my heart — or the loud BANG! that, accompanied by what felt like a punch to the bottom of the plane and a bright flash of light, shook the entire craft. I turned to my husband and mouthed, “What was that?”

In the next instant, I felt my stomach turn as the plane seemed to drop for one, two, three, four seconds. It felt like an eternity. I let out an involuntary gasp and gripped my husband’s hand tighter.

The plane wobbled, steadied, wobbled again. My chest tightened, and I could feel my lips moving as I mumbled the Lord’s Prayer over and over, my hands shaking, my body suddenly extremely cold. “This is a panic attack,” I said to myself.

In that moment and the moments that followed, as the plane continued to experience extreme turbulence for the next 20 or so minutes and light turbulence off and on for the rest of the flight, could you offer no comforting words?

This isn’t the JetBlue plane I was on, but it’s the same model: an Airbus A320. (JetBlue)

No quick quip over the loudspeaker, “I know that was a bit rough, but everything is in working order and we’re continuing as planned”?

I didn’t know what had happened until about an hour into the flight, when the plane had finally steadied enough for the flight attendants to offer us drinks and snacks. A male attendant came to take our order, and the woman across the aisle from us asked what happened during takeoff.

“We just had a little lightning strike. We’re fine,” he said, smiling.

The flight attendant went on to assure the woman that everything was fine, the plane was functioning perfectly. He told her if the pilot thought anything was amiss, he would land the plane sooner rather than later. My hands began to steady. The tightness in my chest waned. His words, however simple, were so comforting.

Then he turned to me and asked me what I would like to drink.

“A water please,” I croaked, “and a Valium.”

Was there someone else on the plane like me, shivering, frightened, gripping a loved one’s hand and praying and hoping they made it home? Could they, like me, have benefited from some words of reassurance from the captain spoken in a calming voice over the intercom, rather than overheard as a conversation between crew and passenger?

I will say this: The crew kept their cool. At no point did they show any outward signs of concern. From beginning to end, their attitude was very much “business as usual.” That takes a lot of skill and poise.

My first instinct today, being the millennial I am, was to send a note to JetBlue via Facebook letting them know the crew did a great job keeping it together, but could have communicated more. The response I received was polite and apologetic.

I’ve also reached out to JetBlue’s corporate office because, beyond being curious as to the extent of damage to the plane, if any, I’m also curious as to what the proper protocol is in a situation like this. Do they have different tiers of emergency response? Should the flight crew have said something? I’ll update this when I hear back.

My husband was my rock. I gripped his hand as he reassured me. I buried my head into his shoulder at the most terrifying moments. If it hadn’t been for him, there are times I thought I would break down completely.

I should say that the rest of my trip, from my flight to Boston to the four amazing days I spent in eastern-central Massachusetts, was wonderful. It was my husband’s first trip to the Bay State; I took him to see the houses where I grew up, the schools I went to, the historic sites I would frequent with Girl Scouts — and we even ran into Ralph Lauren in Boston Public Garden (even though we didn’t realize it was him until about seven hours later).

Now if I can only get rid of the lingering feeling of rocking side-to-side as though I’m on a cruise ship, I’d be able to move on and think about the good of the trip, instead of the flight home.